Beau and I were the only hardy souls in the park at such an early hour, and so we had the entire place to ourselves.
Ankle deep in last autumn's beech leaves, the ground crackled wonderfully underfoot, branches sparkled, and the roots of the old trees were outlined in light. The dusting of new snow had a wonderful fragrance.
Winter is a long old season this far north, and through it all, we long for springtime and greening and warmth. We are, however, boreal creatures of the first order, and revisiting the long white season for a few minutes on a cold morning in late April is a fine thing.
How can one not love the world on such a morning?